Raging Heat

FOUR

“Hi, Bouley? Jameson Rook. I need to cancel my dinner reservation, party of two, for this evening?” He nodded as he listened to the reservation agent. “Thank you. Yes, I’m sorry, too. My lady decided her career is more important than Us Time.”

“Rook.”

“Relax, he’d already hung up. That last part was for your benefit. Bite?” He held out his Italian sub, but even though it was two growls past lunchtime, she didn’t like to eat behind the wheel.

The decision to drive to the Hamptons didn’t come easily. In truth, there was never a good time to leave the city when you were working a case. Heat had two of them going. Plus, she was down a detective. But Raley and Ochoa had risen to the challenge of the home invasion, which definitely relieved some pressure. And Randall Feller, the best street cop she’d ever seen, had Beauvais’s Brooklyn neighborhood covered. He’d even texted his plans to branch out and spend the afternoon circulating his picture around the Haitian cafés and diners concentrated near Flatbush Avenue. Her decision to go came out of the axiom drummed into her by her late mentor, Captain Montrose: “When in doubt, follow the hottest lead.”

Right now, that pointed to the East End of Long Island, even though Keith Gilbert’s helicopter alibi had checked out. The JetRanger dropped him in Fort Lee, New Jersey, at seven-thirty, and he led a Port Authority conference there until four-fifteen yesterday afternoon.

“Made good time,” Rook said as they crossed over the canal from Hampton Bays into Shinnecock Hills. “An hour-fifteen, even without a siren, which — I’m just sayin’ — would have been kind of awesome.”

Rook balled the wrapping from his Jersey Mike’s Number Thirteen and stuffed it in the bag with her untouched turkey and provolone. The heart of the season had passed and only light traffic laid ahead of them. Hints of autumn color painted the trees flanking the Sunrise Highway and the sign advertising pick-your-own apples ahead at the Milk Pail took her back to the fragrant vestibule of Bouley and the dinner that might have been. The grain of truth hidden in Rook’s joke wasn’t that she had chosen work over Us Time; she had postponed a landmark occasion in their relationship. Nikki rested a hand on his, knowing she would just have to live a while longer with the ache of curiosity.

Detective Sergeant Inez Aguinaldo greeted Heat enthusiastically in the vestibule of the Southampton Village Police Department. “Appreciate the courtesy call. We don’t always get that when outside enforcement comes to visit.”

“You’re welcome. But this is more than a courtesy call. You can help me with a case I’m working.”

Aguinaldo’s face brightened, but with no golly factor. Even though she was the lead detective of a small-town force, the plainclothes sergeant gave off the coolheaded ease of military seasoning. She nodded smartly then held the inner door open. “Is your partner coming in, too?”

“No, he’s…He’s good out there.” Rook had volunteered to wait in the car. Odd, for sure. Then Nikki glimpsed him jumping right on his cell phone during her walk through the lobby and wondered what he was up to.

Detective Aguinaldo arranged the mug shot of Fabian Beauvais and the sketches of the two goons from the Flatbush SRO in a spread array on her desktop. “I don’t recognize any of these men.” She studied them some more and said, “If you text me digitals, I’ll circulate them. With your permission, I mean.” Nikki liked this woman. There were too few cops who pulled off the professional command but were still human beings. Heat respected that, and felt immediately comfortable trusting her. Something she demonstrated by texting Aguinaldo the JPEGs right then and there.

Nikki’s instincts about her counterpart received validation by silence. Although clearly curious, Inez Aguinaldo let things rest there. She confirmed receipt of the photos on her iPhone, set it aside, and paused, leaving it up to Nikki whether to tell her more about why she was in Southampton. Heat ran it down in bite-size chunks. From the ghastly fall from the sky to the discovery of the money in the floor of the SRO. Then she took a pause, studying the local cop carefully as she mentioned the name of one of Southampton’s wealthiest and connected residents, Keith Gilbert.

“To be clear,” continued Nikki, “I’m not saying Commissioner Gilbert is even involved in this. Or, if he is, whether he is a victim of some kind of crime himself, or…” She let it go unsaid.

“First off, I appreciate your candor. Keith Gilbert’s about as big as they come. But know this: I don’t care.” For emphasis, she turned her palms upward. “You work in a wealthy town like this, pretty soon you learn two things. One, do your job. Two, do your job. We don’t have two sets of laws, regardless of how much money somebody has or who they think they are.”

“Or, in fact, are,” said Nikki.

“Back to not caring, Detective. Not looking for trouble, not looking to hide from it, either. So how can I help?”

Ten minutes later, Heat started up the car armed with a set of directions to Keith Gilbert’s estate and an ally who said she would personally review any official complaints from Gilbert, as well as all traffic stops, altercations, noise reports, or strangers in the vicinity of his neighborhood over the last six months. Further, Detective Aguinaldo pointed out that if Fabian Beauvais had been in the village to do casual labor, it’s possible he never got on their official radar. Frequently, if they had a benign encounter with someone, say a minor disorderly or a nonbelligerent drunk — as long as they were not behind the wheel — the officers would deal on-scene without an arrest. The sergeant said she would discreetly talk to her uniforms to see if Beauvais sparked any recollection. It wasn’t quite the Real Time Crime Center, but it would do.

Heat updated Rook as they rolled through the Village Center, a quaint ideal of what small-town main streets should feel like, where people who seemed so problem-free ambled the sidewalks past a succession of designer boutiques, stylish galleries, and tea cafés nested in landmark buildings of stone and brick. When she finished, he said, “Aren’t you going to ask what I did? You don’t have to. I called and made us a rez tonight for dinner — and lodging — at the renowned 1770 House in East Hampton.”

“That’s what you were up to? You stinker. Sounds lovely.”

“The food is Barefoot Contessa-approved. And, if you think the restaurant is romantic, wait until you see the rooms.”

She regarded him. “How would you know the rooms are romantic?”

“I think we should focus on my rescue of Us Time.”

“Rook, I’m not so sure I like the idea of reliving some romantic getaway you once had in the Hamptons.”

“Hey, Gin Lane, this is your turn.” He snatched up the map in a move to check the conversation. “We’d better concentrate.” They followed the quiet drive for a while, passing sprawling estates, each, it seemed to her, more opulent than the prior. “Not sure, but I believe I came this way once when I was doing a cover story on Madonna.…You don’t mind that I had a business reason for being here before you, I hope.”

“Not as long as I don’t have to sleep on the same road.”

“Beckett’s Neck,” he said. “This looks like it.” She pulled onto a wide sandy spot on the shoulder and they got out. A vast pond lay across the lane behind them. Five or six smaller estates ringed its shore. They would be considered large by any standard, if they hadn’t been dwarfed by the mansion before them, whose three Gothic chimneys rose up from behind a nine-foot hedge clipped so meticulously, its top edge looked sharp enough to cut.

“Come on.” Nikki began walking the length of the boundary shrub and he fell in step with her. In the Hamptons these manicured greens were more common than walls for privacy. As for security, she made out the grid of chain link fencing embedded in the bushes, painted dark to match the branches. They covered about two hundred yards before they came to the corner of the hedge where it angled a hard right turn and continued along a service path on a neck of sand, rocks, and sea grass that jutted out into the Atlantic.

“Behold Beckett’s Neck,” said Rook. “Stunning.”

The two of them retraced their steps past her undercover Taurus and continued walking another hundred yards to the opposite corner of the property front line. He never asked Heat what she was doing because he knew all about beginner’s eyes and her need to let first impressions be felt. They heard a car, notably the first they’d encountered on this exclusive stretch of road, and a BMW 760 rounded the bend, slowing as the driver gave these strangers a head-to-toe once-over, making no effort to hide it. Nikki wondered if an SVPD cruiser would be summoned. Or if the man in the Bimmer had Keith Gilbert on speed dial.

They came to the main gate, framed by artisanally crafted granite pillars accented with brick. A thick timber crosspiece formed an arch overhead. Implanted in its center sat a rectangular steel plate whose white paint showed weathering and blossoms of rust. The sign, cut from the hull of an old ship, read in black letters COSMO.

Rook appraised the gate, which was made of heavy wood that matched the crossbeam. “We could get over this.”

“And get arrested.”

“Then it’s a good thing you made a police friend.”

When she protested again, he said, “Come on, Nik, we can’t come this far without a healthy peek. You think I got two Pulitzers by waiting in the Humvee because some sign said keep out? Although, I can’t read Russian, so I had plausible deniability.”

Heat ignored him and pressed the call buzzer on the code box. He checked his watch face. “Fine, but exactly one minute, and you’re giving me a boost.”

A dead bolt snapped and the gates parted in the middle wide enough for the man to step out. He had graying hair poking out from under his Carhartt cap and wore a tan, long-sleeved shirt and pants that matched. No stretch for Nikki to take him to be the groundskeeper. “Help you?”

Heat showed her ID and, without any mention of Keith Gilbert or the circumstances, explained she was looking for information on someone. His face tightened, and he said, “I’m just the caretaker.” She had encountered men like him before. Middle-aged pool cleaners and house painters, mostly. Emotionally fragile types not wired for life’s interactions. A lot of them had an unhappy history of desk jobs, and working outdoors alone provided a way to drop out in plain sight. In deference to his unease she kept it simple.

“I’d just like you to look at a picture.”

When she held out the mug shot his eyes barely swept it; then he said in sort of a plea, “I’m only here today to shutter up in case we get that hurricane.” Heat tried to read him for a reaction. Was that blinky look away stress or something more?

“Have you ever seen him?”

“I don’t like to get involved in stuff that’s not my business. I’m just the caretaker,” he repeated.

“Have you ever heard the name, Fabian Beauvais?”

He closed his eyelids as he said, “You should talk to my boss.”

Then Nikki got distracted. Behind the caretaker’s back, Rook flashed her an impish grin and tiptoed through the gap in the gate. What the hell? The man started to look over his shoulder. She drew his attention back. “What about your boss? Has Mr. Gilbert ever mentioned his name?”

He never answered. Behind the gate they heard an urgent bark and Rook’s more urgent “No!”

When they got inside the German shepherd had a mouthful of Rook’s right leg. Sharp teeth took hold of his calf above the Achilles’ — but only clamped firmly without biting. It served its purpose, freezing him in place while the guard dog awaited further instructions. “Call him off?” said Rook, trying to keep his cool. The caretaker drew a forefinger across his throat like a TV director’s cut sign, and the guard dog let go. Then he tapped his thigh twice and the shepherd left Rook and trotted off to heel and sit on alert at the man’s left knee.

“You got lucky. Topper here’s all about strangers.”

The dog’s ears flicked when he heard his name but remained locked on Rook, who inched his way back beside Heat. “Sorry. Really. The gate was open and I just thought it was OK.”

Nikki took the opportunity to study the mansion. Keith Gilbert downplayed it, but with all its grandeur, its multiple gables, its widow’s walks, its nineteenth-century windmill looming over the topiary garden, the gazebo by the pool, and the outbuilding that housed what looked like four sea kayaks, a pair of Lasers and a Hobie Cat, it could only be called the M-word. The caretaker interrupted her survey. “Going to be dark in an hour, and I’ve got chores to finish. I’ll close the gate after you.”

As soon as the dead bolt slid behind them she said, “This is why I make you stay in the car.”

“And, if I had, you’d have never seen that place. Did you get a load of that garden? Straight out of Architectural Digest.”

“I want to try the neighbors.” Nikki crossed the road, trying to find a house close enough to be considered neighboring. She chose the nearest, a sore thumb of a Moroccan modern situated on the pond.

Rook didn’t miss a beat as they walked toward it. “How could Gilbert not call that a mansion? Jeez, it’s the size of a hotel. No, it’s Downton Abbey’s little brother, only of wood. And did you see the color variation on the roof and siding? That must be the post-Irene repair work he was complaining about.”

Actually, Nikki had made note of the new shingling, too, first on the old windmill, then on the house and roof; the older squares appeared slightly darker than the replacements. “Lot of work got done on that place since spring.” Meaning a Rook Theory couldn’t be far off.

“Here comes.”

“Hey, I don’t think it’s tinfoil hat time to postulate that our dead Haitian’s manual labor job was rehabbing Cosmo. In fact, are you ready for a hypothesis?”

Heat said no, but he voiced it anyway, one that she herself had been percolating. “You’ve got a guy about to run for political office. Lots of scrutiny. Everybody sniffing through every aspect of his life. And what’s one very damning skeleton he could have rattling in his closet? Employing an illegal alien.”

“So you think the ten grand was hush money to Beauvais?”

“Got you thinking, haven’t I?” Then he stretched and grinned. “Validation. Hello, my old chum.”

Alicia Delamater invited them in. As Heat put away her ID, the woman said, “You didn’t strike me as religious solicitors. Not that you’d get many converts on this stretch of road. Can I offer you anything?” Nikki noticed the half glass of red on the black lacquered hutch where she must have parked it when they rang the bell.

“That’s very kind. We’d just like to ask you a few questions, then we’ll be off.”

“Sure. But can you come with me? You caught me in the middle of something.” They followed her from the foyer into the dining room, which had been converted into a home office. “I’m downloading a bunch of baby pictures to make posters for a client’s surprise seventieth for her dad.” She moved around to her Cinema Screen monitor and frowned. “Can you believe people still use DSL? So East Ender.”

Outside of, maybe, pizza, a meal hadn’t been served in that room for a long time. It bespoke ordered chaos with surfaces and shelves full of large-format planning calendars, catering menus, three-ring binders with client last names on the spines, and event photos with socialites and celebrities. Rook said, “I take it you’re a party planner.”

“Planner, executor, part-time shrink to the wealthy dysfunctional. I’m also not above valet parking a few Bentleys, if it makes the host happy.” Alicia Delamater radiated a gameness for just about anything. Beyond energy and ambition, she gave off an up-front lustiness, like a skinny-dip or a margarita in a red cup was never out of the question. Nikki took her to be about her age, but showing some mileage that must have gone with the lifestyle. “I’m all yours,” she said, surrendering to the sluggish bit rate.

“Do you mind if I ask if you’ve been around here long?”

“About two years. Got sick of the corporate insanity and chose my own brand. Moved here, started my own business, and, Geronimo.”

“You must be doing all right,” said Rook.

“Not getting the call from Sean Combs to revive his White Party all right, but all right enough.” She let her gaze linger on the handsome journalist in frank assessment.

Heat broke that right up with the photo. “Sometime in the last few months would you have seen this man?”

The woman let out a throaty laugh. “Oh my God, are you kidding? Sure. That’s Fabian.” Then she gave Heat a worried glance. “This is a mug shot. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

Nikki remained nonchalant, but Rook moved closer in his excitement. “And do you know his last name?”

“It’s one of those French-Haitian ones. Not Bouvier but close.”

“Beauvais?” offered Heat. And Alicia affirmed with a nod. “How or where do you know him?”

“He worked here for me. I had a lot of high-water damage after Irene that I just lived with through the winter. I hired Fab in the summer to get the property in shape.”

Rook joined in. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Exactly two weeks ago. He cut his leg on the power clipper. I offered to take him to the ER but he refused. Probably paranoid because he was illegal.” An idea struck her. “You’re not here because I hired an alien…?”

“No,” Nikki assured her. “We’re just trying to piece together his movements. “Did he have any other interaction around here, perhaps do some work for some of the neighbors?” She held her breath, waiting for the Keith Gilbert connection. But Alicia shook her head.

“No way. I kept him too busy here, believe me.”

“Did Beauvais tell you where he was going when he left?” asked Rook.

“Back to New York was all he said.”

Heat turned a page on her notebook. “And what about visitors, did anyone come by?” The woman wagged no again. “Did he ever mention any problems or conflicts with anyone?”

“No, I’m sorry, Detective. He was just a nice guy who worked on my property and left. Not much else to tell.”

They walked down her driveway in silence. Heat churned conflicted feelings. Not just the surface disappointment that Fabian Beauvais’s connection pointed to Alicia Delamater, not Keith Gilbert, but the wariness she felt that of all the places the Haitian could end up in an area the size of the Hamptons, it was with Gilbert’s neighbor. As he so often did, Rook voiced her thoughts. “Did that pass the smell test for you?”

“She never asked why we were interested in him.”

“But you never told her, either. Is that a holdback, Detective?”

“I want to knock on some more doors.”

They got no answer at the first four places they canvassed. They agreed to try one more before dark and were greeted on the driveway of a best-selling author, a mystery writer who routinely held the top spots on airport bookracks.

“Sure, I can spare a minute. Got Connelly, Nesbø, and Lehane waiting for me at Nick & Toni’s, but that’s all right. Good for humility.” He chuckled, and it softened his brawny good looks, making that iconic face appear like his early author photos, the ones before he started wearing sunglasses and black leather coats in a dark alley. He gave a polite nod of recognition to Jameson Rook when Nikki introduced him, but the crime novelist seemed more keen on Heat and her police interview.

“No, I can’t say that I’ve seen this guy. But there’s a battalion of casual laborers through here. On any given day, somebody’s building something or tearing something down. Have you tried Beckett’s Neck? I swear Gilbert’s been single-handedly turning the economy around this summer.”

“We didn’t get anybody who could help us there,” said Heat. “Aside from you, the only person we’ve talked to is Alicia Delamater, his neighbor.”

The author seemed to find that funny. He repeated “neighbor” and made air quotes then leaned forward, as if he could be overheard on his four-acre estate. “Try substituting ‘mistress’ and you’ll have it.”

“Aha,” said Rook. “So there’s been a little hedge jumping?”

“And then some. Rumor is Keith Gilbert was doing her when she worked at his shipping company. Must be good because he installed her out here and set up her business.”

Rook nodded. “That’s what I call a golden petticoat.”

“Stick to magazines,” said the author.

When she opened her door to find Heat and Rook, Alicia Delamater’s smile seemed forced. “You back to check on my download? Still cooking, can you believe it?”

“I had a few more questions, if that’s all right.”

Alicia shrugged fine and smiled a little more. Heat made it a point to hold her pen over her notebook. “I was wondering, how did you come to hire Fabian Beauvais?”

Alicia pursed her lips and let her eyes roam the beadboard on the porch ceiling. Nikki prodded her. “I mean, could you give me the name of the agency? Or did you drive by and pick him out of the crowd of immigrants who hang out near the train station?”

“Hmm, can’t remember. But I’ve got your card; I’ll call you when I do.” Heat sensed uneven breathing and decided to push.

“Are you currently, or have you been, in a relationship with Keith Gilbert?”

“I…I think you should go.” And Alicia Delamater closed her front door.

“I’m no detective,” said Rook, “but I would definitely mark that down as a yes.”

The hostess at the 1770 House gave them the most romantic spot in the restaurant, a table for two against a pony wall for privacy right near the antique fireplace for atmosphere and coziness. “I feel sort of weird checking into a special place like this without luggage,” she said after they sat.

“See?” said Rook. “A first.” He reached across the linen and took her hand. “You’re not still perseverating on the fact that I’ve been here before.”

Heat surveyed the subdued dining room’s exposed beams, tasteful oil paintings, and period china displays that adorned the walls. As she watched the hearth’s goldenness flicker on Rook’s face, Nikki felt a warmth and anticipation spread inside her and slid her other hand to caress his. “I can be distracted,” she said.

Aware of the small world of East Hampton, they had decided in the car not to discuss the case in an open setting, which was difficult because the afternoon had raised as many questions as it answered. But that would wait. A bottle of Lucien Crochet Sancerre sat on ice and the pressing order of business for Heat and Rook was to choose between pan roasted Atlantic cod or the organic chicken with mashed potatoes and kale.

Rook made a face. “Problem with chicken after today?” she asked.

“What’s all the excitement about kale? Know what kale is? Kale is the pubic hair of greens.”

“Shh.” Nikki swept the other tables, but nobody else heard.

He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Seriously. Know what kale tastes like? The Jolly Green Giant’s nether regions. Don’t ask how I know.”

They laughed and made a lovers’ tink of their wineglasses. Nikki studied him, fighting her anticipation, just as she also embraced it and felt its thrill. Then her phone buzzed. She stole a discreet look and the caller ID told her it was Detective Ochoa. “I’m sorry.”

“Please. Take it.”

Heat excused herself and whispered, “Hang on,” during her walk to the inn’s reception area. Both Ochoa and Raley were on the call and eager to fill her in.

Ochoa began, “We still haven’t turned any eyewits, and the security cams aren’t pointed in our favor. As for the Wall Street check, so far this guy was a candidate for sainthood. But we’ll still mine that shaft.”

“Now for the strange. Want to talk odd socks?” asked Raley, employing the term she had coined to instruct her squad always to look for things at a crime scene that don’t match or feel right. “We’ve spent the day here combing through everything with CSU and the inventory specialist from the victim’s insurance company. Nothing valuable got taken. And there’s plenty here. Jewelry, collector paintings, sculptures. Even some gold Krugerrands in a cigar humidor.”

“Anyway,” continued Ochoa, “drawers have been emptied, bookcases pawed, closets ransacked, you get the picture. But all this valuable stuff around, and nothing seems to have gotten boosted.”

Raley added, “Oh, and even the maid’s room got tossed. Which is odd. It’s pretty spare. Just some clothes and makeup. And no wall safe in there.”

“Somebody was looking for something,” she said.

“And we can’t tell if they found it.”

“What about the maid?” asked Heat.

“Nowhere to be found,” said Ochoa. “Missing as missing can be.”

“And here’s reason we called. The maid’s not only Haitian, but in her room we found a picture of a guy who could be a boyfriend.” Raley paused. “He’s got a tatt on his shoulder.” In butchered pronunciation he said, “‘L’Union Fait La Force.’ Pardon my French.”